


it will have blood they say (blood will have blood)

by leapylion3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All of this happens in Roose's mind, Asphyxiation, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Character Study, Dark, F/M, Kink Meme, Light Bondage, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/pseuds/leapylion3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is fond of his wife, and the couplings are good, but...something is missing. He is not sure what, though he can <em>feel</em> it. </p><p>It is a mystery to him, and he takes an instant dislike to anything he cannot solve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it will have blood they say (blood will have blood)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing Roose and I really hope I didn't screw it up! I hope it's good eep <3
> 
> Based on the prompt: Young Roose is in control of his darker urges, but still hasn't leeched them fully out of his system. When he has sex with Bethany he likes to think about all the things he could do, but never does.

Their couplings are normal- at least, Roose _thinks_ they are normal. He has not seen any other couples fucking- _making love?_ He is not sure yet-, but he suspects he and his wife's encounters are not any different from the norm. It feels good, and isn't that all that matters? Perhaps it even feels better than when he bedded that serving girl a few years ago, and certainly better than his fumblings with the farmer's daughter when he was still a green boy. He thinks it is better, since he has developed an odd sort of fondness for his wife. Neither of them are very expressive, but because of that, they understand each other, in a way that Roose has never experienced with anyone before.

He is fond of his wife, and the couplings are good, but...something is missing. He is not sure what, though he can _feel_ it. The void is there, in his heart, like a gaping maw. The absence of whatever it is gnaws at the back of his brain whenever he watches his wife bask in her pleasure. He is never as hard as he should be, and it takes longer than it should to _get_ him hard in the first place. It is a mystery to him, and he takes an instant dislike to anything he cannot solve.

He is snapped back to reality when Bethany slips a hand between their bodies, wrapping her elegant fingers around his cock. A choked groan escapes his lips as she guides him inside her. He will surely be embarrassed for the noise later on, when they are painted with sweat and lying in bed. They never curl up into one another after- perhaps it is too early in their marriage for that. But now, he is merely embarrassed for forgetting about his wife. He is ashamed for losing himself in thought, in all that is wrong with their relationship. 

He inwardly curses himself as Bethany begins to move on top of him. _Nothing is wrong with their relationship_. He repeats the words to himself in his head, chanting, like a prayer. He tries to focus on the way her firm breasts bounce as she rides him, focus on her plump red lips. His wife is lovely, and should not be contested with silly thoughts of whatever is lacking between them.

His pale eyes flutter shut, his blunt fingernails digging into the skin of her thighs. She lets out a surprised gasp at the force, but he does not let go. He tightens his grip, can see the half-moon shapes of the marks behind his eyelids. The bruises will surely be there for days. He can feel the blood on his fingers, the smell of iron hitting him hard...

He opens his eyes. There is no blood on her flesh, only crescent shapes from his nails. His hands are coated with a film of sweat, not gore. He feels a strange sense of disappointment at that. 

Bethany's hands curl over his on her hips, helping him set the rhythm. Her wrists are small, surely small enough for his large hands to clasp around... He imagines flipping his wife onto her back and pinning her hands above her head. He would tie the ribbons she wore in her hair at supper- now discarded on the nightstand- around her wrists, tight enough to leave behind red welts. She would squirm and writhe underneath him, trying to break free of the restrains. He can hear her pleading, whimpering out his name over and over again.

He does not flip her over, only trails his hands upwards to cup her breasts. They are perfect handfuls, tender and soft. She shudders on top of him as he runs a thumb over her nipple. He lightly pinches it, eliciting a quiet whine from her. With a thumb and a forefinger, he could easily twist it and make her cry out-

His hands slide back to her waist. 

There is a knife under his pillow. He always keeps it there, just in case. He has only used it for shaving over the basin of water on the other side of the room. It is still sharp enough to draw blood, especially with his expert, lithe movements, quick like a snake. He feels himself harden further at the thought. 

Her blood would dot her milky white skin, bright red, almost fluorescent. It would look like weirwood leaves lain on top of the snow, Roose thinks. He would not hurt her too badly. It would only be a few scratches on her thighs, her belly, the valley in between her breasts. He would lean up and lick the wounds, the metallic taste sharp and tangy on his tongue. 

Bethany reaches a hand in between them to tease the bud at the top of her sex. She is sultry and erotic, all smooth fair skin and fluttering eyelids and red lips. He does not think he has ever told her that. Probably not, he concedes. He does not know how to word his affections. He is more a man of action.

Her bosom heaves with her ragged breaths, her bottom lip worried between her teeth. He knows from her flushed cheeks that she is close to coming. Her throat is impossibly pale, and Roose can practically _see_ purple imprints of fingertips forming. He would wrap his hands around her neck, squeezing, her jaw dropped in shock as she tries to suck in breaths. Her eyes would be so wide, they would look as if they would pop out of their sockets. Dark, dark brown, almost black, contrasting against the white sclera. 

He would hold tight, until she was clawing at his chest for reprieve. He would watch as the life would flicker out of her eyes-

But he would release before anything could happen.

Bethany rolls off of him when they are done. He hadn't even realized that he'd spilled his seed inside her. She sits at the edge of the bed, her back towards him, regaining her breath. His fingers inch toward her, and he finds her hand. Roose interlaces his fingers through hers, runs a thumb along the veins of her wrist.

For the first time in their marriage, he pulls her to him. She freezes for a moment, unsure of this new display of affection. A moment later, she relaxes and curls up to his side, her hair splayed on the pillows and his chest. She smells of the lemon perfume she favours, sweat, and sex. It is an intoxicating combination on her. 

He closes his eyes and falls into a dreamless sleep, thoughts of whatever is wrong between them a distant memory. 


End file.
